From the Start
by moonlighten
Summary: A series of 50 short fics of 100-1500 words following Scotland and France's relationship from 300 CE to the present day, all based on word prompts. (Scotland/France.) Multi-chapter, in progress.
1. Prompt 036: Clear Skies

**Circa 300 CE, Provincia Britannia**

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The sky is a pure, brilliant, unbroken blue, scalded dry by the sun, and it is empty. Empty of insects, of birds, of _clouds_ , and yet the air crackles as though there's a storm gathering.

 _Magic_.

It throbs in Caledonia's bones, and pulses through the ground like a heartbeat; like footsteps, pounding out the rhythm: They come, they come, they come.

One of Caledonia's own kind is approaching, and the earth itself trembles before them, leaching power from the soil which swirls and eddies around their feet. The pattern of their tread is not one he recognises. It is a stranger who draws near to the wall Roma built to keep Caledonia and his people caged like the wild animals he names them.

Intrigued, Caledonia sets out to meet them.

His fae flock to him, then, calling out wordless warnings in their raptor's voices, and pulling at his braids and the hem of his brat, urging him to stop. Caledonia ignores them. Though the stranger's steps are heavy, there is a caution to them, a slight hesitation that bespeaks unease. They are no invader, come to cross swords and try to wrest Caledonia's lands from him as Roma did.

The way is long and gruelling, and by the time Caledonia reaches the wall, the sun has begun to dip below the horizon and the sky is purpling like a bruise. He pulls himself up and over the rough stones with more speed than finesse, skinning both his knees and the heels of his palms, and then crouches behind the battlements at the wall's apex, so he can see without being seen.

There are two figures below, and one of them is achingly familiar: Caledonia's brother, Britannia.

It has been a decade or more since Caledonia last saw him, and even longer since they last spoke. Since Britannia hurled invectives at him, cursed his name, and blamed him once more for Roma's conquest, as though Caledonia ever had any choice but to retreat northwards, protect his people, and leave Britannia to tend to his own.

The intervening years have little changed Britannia. He still looks as blade-thin, pale, and sullen as he ever did, and is evidentially just as cunning. Caledonia never sensed so much as a whispered hint of his advance.

Britannia's companion is a stranger. Is _the_ stranger. She is at least a head taller than Britannia, lithe and elegant in a striped tunic and toga which flutters around her calves as she twirls and prances around the scowling Britannia. Magic sparks whenever her bare feet kiss the grass, and the last light of the dying day burnishes her fair curling hair to molten gold.

Caledonia thinks she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.


	2. Prompt 010: Stranger

**Note:** _As Wales did not exist as a distinct entity during the Roman period, I have had to use an anachronistic name for him here: Cambria (a Latinised form of Cymru, which wasn't used until the medieval period)._  
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Circa 420, Caledonia**

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Cambria weeps when he lays eyes on Caledonia again, though that signifies very little, as he weeps over sunsets, songs, rabbit kits at play, and all manner of trifling nonsense.

At his side, Britannia remains unmoved. "I don't know why you insisted we trek all the way up here," he says. "You must know that Roma has abandoned the island; there's no need to keep hiding behind your wall anymore. You could have travelled south, to us."

"And you could have stayed home, if you wished." The message Caledonia had sent with his fae was an invitation, not a summons. "No-one forced you to come."

"Well, I, for one, am glad we did." Cambria raises his arms outstretched as though to embrace Caledonia, but instead wraps them around his own ample middle. "It's good to be here, _frater_."

"That remains to be seen," Caledonia says. Britannia seems to be spoiling for a fight; has been spoiling for a fight this past century or more. All that time, Caledonia had known that this first meeting between them was apt to end in violence, but their island is small and they would not have been able to avoid one another forever. He has delayed it for too long already, and though he'd much rather send Britannia on his way until his mood improves, he forces himself to say, "Follow me."

He leads his brothers to a nearby roundhouse, abandoned years before by the farmers who once lived there. Half of its roof has caved in, letting in enough water whenever it rains that the hard-packed dirt floor has turned to mud in places.

Britannia hitches his toga higher up his legs as he crosses it, and takes dainty little steps, as though afeared of getting his sandals dirty.

Caledonia despairs of him. "You're used to far finer things now, I suppose," he says. "Fancy villas and the like. Your time with Roma has spoiled you. You've gone soft."

"I have not." Britannia draws himself up to his full, diminutive height, his spine as stiff as a spear shaft. "You have no idea what life was like under Roma's rule. You shouldn't talk about things you don't understand." He laughs, harsh and brittle. "Though that would leave you with very little to say."

His sly smile is practically begging to be knocked from his face, and the angry jut of his chin provides a very tempting target, but as soon as Caledonia clenches his hands into fists, Cambria cries out, "I have dried fruit in my pack, and a jar of wine."

The promise of wine is even more tempting, and Caledonia doubts Cambria would be inclined to share if he were to break Britannia's nose. He's always been quick to take their little brother's side, even when that side is indefensible.

"I caught some rabbits earlier," Caledonia tells him, "I'd be happy to share them, too, if you're willing to help me skin them and build a fire."

Cambria sets to both tasks with the same cheerful industry that Caledonia remembers him possessing when they were weans together, but Britannia stands sullenly apart, and doesn't lift a finger.

Nonetheless, he still huddles close to the fire once it's roaring, and doesn't demur when Caledonia reluctantly offers him a bite of rabbit, even though he hasn't done a thing to deserve such hospitality.

He and Cambria talk idly of the food as they eat, but when the rabbits' bones are picked clean, they lapse into silence. Back when it was just the three of them, after their mother died but before Roma invaded, words flowed as freely between them as any mountain stream, but now Caledonia cannot think of anything to say that would not sadden Cambria or anger Britannia further.

Britannia stares at the fire, and Cambria pokes at its embers with a stick, rummages through his pack, stands, stretches, and then finally cracks open his jar of wine.

He takes a sip from it, and then hands it to Caledonia. The scent alone is potent enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he drinks deep. It burns his throat, and pools, hot and heavy, in the pit of his stomach. When he holds the jar out for Britannia to take, his arm scarcely feels like it's part of his own body: wobbling and unsteady, as though it has come unmoored from his shoulder and is almost beyond his control.

He means to tell Britannia to be cautious, but before he has chance to speak, Britannia snatches the jar from him and takes a long draught from it. He coughs and splutters, and practically throws the jar back to Cambria.

By the time the wine has completed its second pass around their circle, Caledonia's legs are as numb as his arms, Britannia's face is ruddy, and Cambria is smiling so widely that Caledonia's own cheeks ache just to look at him.

After the third, Cambria begins to talk. About anything and everything that springs to mind, seemingly – magic, his people, the weather – without pause to take breath or allow for an interjection. It's an ancient habit of his, one he's indulged in ever since he learnt how to speak, and, when they were younger, it annoyed Caledonia. Now, he finds it comforting. In this, at least, Cambria has not changed, though he may feel like a stranger in so many ways otherwise.

He talks on uninterrupted through the fourth pass, and by the fifth, Britannia is loose-limbed and sufficiently relaxed that he slumps against Caledonia's side, his head coming to rest against Caledonia's shoulder as it used to when the hour grew late and he was losing his struggle to stay awake.

He's so close to sleep, so sotted, that Caledonia judges it safe to ask the question has wanted him to answer for decades. Come morning, he likely won't remember having been compliant enough to reply.

"Who's that girl I've seen you with?"

"Wha' girl?" Britannia says.

"The girl who used to come up to the wall with you. The girl with the long, golden hair, who danced, and—"

Britannia's laughter this time sounds genuine, and richly amused. "That was no _girl_ , Caledonia. _His_ name is Gallia, and he's… he's an insufferable nuisance. And a viper." Britannia presses his thumb up against his fingers, hand mimicking a snake's head, and then jabs it against Caledonia's wrist, breath hissing through his teeth all the while. "Liable to strike at you the moment your back's turned. You'd be best off steering clear of him entirely, believe me."


	3. Prompt 027: Preparation

**Circa 790, Kingdom of Dál Riata**

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When he was younger, Francia had been called angelic, with his round, dimpled cheeks and flaxen ringlets. They had made his people want to pamper him, coddle him as though he were even younger yet. Francia had basked in their attention, and been enamoured with his own reflection as a consequence.

Now, he detests it. Those qualities for which he was so admired as a child do not well suit a youth approaching the cusp of manhood, and though he has grown both taller and slimmer in recent years, his face has not lost all of its juvenile plumpness, nor has his hair lost that same, hateful curl.

And this day, more than any other, he wants to look older, stronger, more mature, but despite the patient hour he has spent with oil and comb, trying to tease his hair into straightness, he cannot rid it of the last lingering wave that only serves to accentuate the softness of his features.

There is nothing to be done for it save to scrape the entire, infuriating mess back into a braid, wound tight around itself and secured close against his skull. An inelegant solution, and like to leave him with an aching head come evening, but still better than the alternative.

He scrubs his skin just as thoroughly, using a basin of fire-warmed water and rough cloth, and then dresses in the clothing he had picked out long before he made his arduous, and extremely cold, journey north: a linen shirt and breeches, silk-fringed tunic, and a long, marten-skin coat.

A man's clothing. A costume, perhaps, but Francia has anticipated this particular encounter for many centuries now, and he wants to make the best impression he can, even if it is a false one.

For he cannot believe that Britannia spoke true all those years ago, when he took Gallia to see Roma's wall and told him that his brother, Caledonia, was a boy just like them. He could never have been a boy like Francia was then, not when he had kept Roma's armies at bay and taught Roma himself to fear him.

Britannia was ever quick to disparage his brother and did not speak a word of him that was not unkind, so Francia was always more inclined to believe Roma's stories of Caledonia, for he, at least, respected his prowess in battle even whilst he hated him for his obstinance.

He spoke of a towering warrior, with painted skin and cruel eyes, who fought with the tireless savagery of a wild beast. Such tales, Francia supposed, were meant to dissuade him from venturing too close to Caledonia's lands when they visited Britannia, but he'd found them more intriguing than off-putting. They did frighten him, though likely not in the way Roma had intended; his fear was a more anticipatory one, a delightful frisson that shivered through his body whenever he envisaged meeting Caledonia for the first time.

Still, he had never dared to summit the wall in Roma's day, nor to contrive a reason pressing enough to excuse a visit until his own king provided one: he needs the help of the erstwhile-Caledonia – Alba, now – to help repel the Saxons, who are taking their chances at invasion whilst Charlemagne is away fighting the Saracens.

A weighty request, and normally Francia would know just which pretty platitudes to use in order to sweeten it. A warrior, he is certain, would not be impressed by the honeyed words and flatteries he is most skilled at, so instead he dresses like a man, holds his head high, and schools his expression to indifference, even though his guts are tying themselves into knots and his legs shake with every step he takes through Achaius' castle and towards the great hall, where, a servant informs him, Alba is waiting.

He discovers the other kingdom sitting close the hearth there, wood and whittling knife in hand, and he is even more handsome than Francia had thought to imagine. His profile is strong, proud, and the firelight suffuses warmth to his otherwise pale skin and paints his dark, russet hair with a coppery sheen. His eyes, when he turns them away from his work at Francia's approach are even more beautiful: a deep, vibrant spring green darkly framed by long, fine-feathered lashes.

Francia can scarcely find the breath to introduce himself, nor the coordination to offer a bow, but he does eventually manage both, though with a great deal less aplomb than he would have liked.

Alba comports himself no better. When he stands to return the bow, he stumbles, dropping his knife, and sends it skittering across the stone-flagged floor with a careless, clumsy nudge of his foot.

Francia stoops to retrieve it, and when he straightens up again, Alba has moved closer and he is shocked to discover that they are almost of a height, no more than half a head or so between them, and, though Alba is broad across the shoulders and chest, he is definitely not the mightily thewed man Roma described.

He is not any sort of man at all, that much is clear. He is a youth, just as Britannia had said he would be. Just as Francia is, and his cheeks are flushed red, just as Francia knows his own must be.

When he speaks, he fumbles his words as badly as he had done his knife, his Latin thickly accented and halting, and he cannot bring himself to meet Francia's eyes whilst they sit together by the fire and exchange a few banal pleasantries.

He is, Francia realises, nervous, even though Francia has come to him as a supplicant, begging for his aid. He has all the power between them, and yet he trembles, and sweats, and can barely string a sentence together.

There is none of the fire Francia had expected, none of the fierce fighter's spirit Roma had told him of. The anxious twist of Francia's guts loosens, and a cold, heavy feeling settles in its place, one he recognises as disappointment.


	4. Prompt 049: Writer's Choice (Weapon)

**Circa 950, Kingdom of Dál Riata**

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Alba parries the thrust of Francia's sword with an insultingly indolent flick of his wrist, but makes no attempt at a riposte, and instead drops his arm so that the tip of his blade drags through the dirt beneath their feet.

"Better," he says, in that same quiet, conciliatory tone he always uses when they spar, the one Francia has come to detest over the course of their acquaintance. "But you need to put more weight on your leading foot, and try not to drop your shoulder so much before you swing. It makes it very obvious what your next move will be."

"Thank you for the advice," Francia says with cold formality. Alba is, as ever, oblivious to his displeasure, and his small smile is both warm and pleased, as though he has been paid a delightful compliment.

"Again?" Alba asks, and again he bats Francia's sword aside like a man swatting a bothersome but harmless fly.

His breathing is easy, and though the day is what passes for a balmy one in this gelid land of his, he has barely broken a sweat. Francia's own shirt and breeches are soaked through, plastered uncomfortably close and clammy against his skin.

Alba is not trying. He never tries, and Francia's patience with that has been thinning this past century and more.

When Alba's face softens once more, and he opens his mouth on what is bound to be yet another helpful correction of Francia's stance, or technique, or person, it finally snaps.

"This is not what I meant when I said I wanted to cross swords with you," he says.

Alba blinks at him. "What?"

"I do not want a lesson; I have sword masters for that. I want us to _fight_."

"Why? There has been no quarrel between our kings. Nor…" Alba swallows hard, and pauses to wet his lips with the flat of his tongue. "Nor between the two of us, I thought."

"There does not need to be," Francia says. "But we are allies, and I should know your strengths as you know mine. And yet you always pull every blow. Why is that? Do you think me incapable of fighting?"

"Of course not!" Alba insists. "You're a far better shot than I am. I'll likely never match your skills with the bow."

"A coward's weapon," Francia scoffs.

"I've never said that, and I don't—"

"Ah, but some of your men have. They think me weak, and you do too, apparently."

"I don't, Francia. I—"

"Then _fight me_. Like you mean it. Like a true warrior; the one who terrified Roma." The one who Francia had dreamt about for so many years, but heretofore had never caught so much as a glimpse of. "He said you were a wild animal. Unstoppable."

Alba's mouth tightens and his eyes narrow. "And that's what you want, is it?"

"Yes!"

Alba's gaze remains fixed on Francia for a moment, shadowed and unreadable, and then he shrugs. "Fair enough."

"And don't hold back," Francia reminds him. "You can't do me any lasting harm, and you certainly can't kill me."

"Aye, I know," Alba says quietly. "Come on, then. Enough talking."

Normally, Alba's steps are ponderous, lumbering like a bear's, but when he shifts his weight into a fighting stance, he moves with a lithe and effortless fluidity that Francia has not seen him display before. His expression, too, is an unfamiliar one, grim and determined, and he meets Francia's eyes with uncharacteristic forthrightness.

Francia scarcely recognises him, and, disquieted, he repositions his hand on his sword's grip, tightening his hold, before making a tentative and experimental lunge towards him.

Alba evades it easily with a sinuous twist of his hips, and his answering strike is so swift that Francia blocks it more by chance than design, and forceful enough that it feels to jar Francia's shoulder clear out of its socket.

The pain shocks a sharp cry from him, and on any other day such a sound would cause Alba to retreat in an instant, spluttering out apologies and offers to fetch healing herbs, or wine, or aught else that might soothe him, but now he presses on heedless to it, raining down a barrage of relentless cuts and chops that Francia struggles to counter. He has neither the opportunity nor sufficient wits remaining to even consider attacking.

And still Alba's breathing is calm and steady, his brow dry, as though he is simply out taking a relaxing stroll to enjoy the unusually fine weather.

Francia's own breath is short, laboured, and burns somewhere deep in his chest. His guard is slow, becoming sloppier by the moment as his arms and legs grow weak and begin to shake.

His only surprise when Alba lands a blow to his stomach is that it hadn't come sooner.

He looks down to see Alba's blade sticking out of his chest, buried up to the crossguard, which makes no sense, because Alba surely punched him. There is only a dull ache in his belly, as though a bruise is blooming there.

"Shit," Alba says, his voice so thin and brittle that it breaks apart on his lips. "Oh, fuck. _Fuck_. I'm sorry, Francia. I'm so, so sorry."

Francia wants to tell him that all will be well, but there's something blocking his throat and he chokes on the words. Alba clasps the back of Francia's neck, holding his head still. His palms are slick – _it's blood_ , Francia's blood, _dripping from Alba's hands and drenching the sleeves of his léine_ – and his fingertips dig deep into Francia's skin.

"Francia," he says, and he must say more, because his mouth keeps on moving, but Francia cannot hear it above the sound of the rising wind, whistling in his ears.

There must be a storm brewing, and its darkness blots out first the sky and finally the sun.

And then the entire world drops away, and Francia falls along with it.


	5. Prompt 009: Heartbeat

This chapter is set directly after the events of the previous one.  
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Circa 950, Kingdom of Dál Riata**

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When Alba had carried Francia from the practice field, he had been nothing but a dead weight in his arms, limp and cold, and the only sign that he continued to live was the pained wheeze of his breathing, which rattled bloody at the back of his throat and grew ever more shallow with every step Alba took.

By the time Alba laid him out on his own bed, nestled warm and snug amongst the thick furs piled there, even that faint sound had stopped entirely. In a voice worn raw by sobbing, Alba called out for his people to gather herbs and poultices, to fetch the apothecary, a priest, everything and everyone that might be able bring Francia some succour.

His servants had looked on Francia's torn belly, corpse-pale face, and unmoving breast and likely judged Alba a madman for thinking there could be anything left to save. Still they had complied, and now every morning they bring fresh reports of Francia's returning health, of his knitting flesh and lifting pallor, all delivered in tones of stunned, almost worshipful, wonder.

A miracle, they name it, a sign of God's grace, but Alba shakes his head to that.

"It's just the way of our kind," he tells them. "We do not die easily, and certainly not by the sword."

He speaks the words firmly, with surety and confidence, as though he has never and could never doubt them. As though his heart hadn't stopped cold in his chest when Francia collapsed to the ground at his feet and for an agonising instant he'd believed that he might truly have killed him.

He's slain countless men on countless battlefields in the service of his king, and thought himself long-inured to viscera and spilt blood, but the sight of Francia's had still sickened him, driven him to his knees beside him, and he'd vomited until he was bringing up nothing but bile and coppery spittle.

The memory lingers, as bright and vivid and dreadful as the moment that birthed it, and a sennight passes before he dares to visit look upon Francia again, and only then after the apothecary assures him that the worst is over and Francia is close to awakening once more.

The room given over to Francia's convalescence – Alba's own room – is but dimly lit by a handful of guttered candles and the glowing embers of the fire banked in the grate. The air so hot and thick with smoke, sharp and acrid from the burning of the apothecary's wares, that it robs the air from Alba's chest as soon as he steps foot across the threshold and raises a sweat to his brow.

Francia's brow is unsullied thus, and though he is wrapped tight around with blankets and furs from foot to shoulder, his complexion is pale and his lips are tinged blue as if chilled. His skin, too, is cold when Alba reaches out to reassure himself that his heart beats still and presses the tips of two fingers against Francia's throat, just beneath the hinge of his jaw.

His pulse is slow but regular, and his eyelids twitch a little, pale lashes fluttering against his ashen cheeks. Alba snatches his hand away guiltily, ashamed to have disturbed Francia's rest.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice pitched low and as soothing as he is capable of. "For everything. I never should have let you goad me into striking you."

But Francia's words had made him prideful, eager to prove himself the great warrior Francia had heard tell of. He'd pushed too hard, though, grown careless in his arrogance, and likely proved only that hateful lie of Roma's: that he was no better than a wild beast. Savage. Dangerous.

"It won't happen again," he promises Francia, just as he has promised himself every long, dragging hour of these past seven days. "As long as we both live, I will never harm you."

It's a rash pledge, untenable, because though they may yet be allies, there is no telling what their future may hold. If Alba's king ever commands him to take up arms against Francia, he must and will obey, but, here and now, standing vigil beside Francia's sickbed, Alba means it with all his heart.


	6. Prompt 003: Numb

**Circa 1050, Kingdom of Alba**

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The midwinter sun is distant and anaemically pale, growing paler with each passing hour as storm clouds gather close in the sky, dark and gravid with snow, and the air is so sharp with cold and ice that it hurts to breathe.

Left to his own devices, Francia would have sat himself close to a well-built fire and not stirred until the day's end, but since the previous day's blizzard had kept him confined indoors against his inclinations, Alba is restless and eager to stretch his legs.

Long experience has already taught Francia that there is no pleasure to be found in joining Alba on his walks, as he always hurries along at great speed, regardless of whether his companions can match pace with him, never pauses to take shelter if the weather turns foul, and scorns paths and trails whenever he can. Yet, despite that understanding, he hadn't hesitated before accepting Alba's invitation to accompany him, because he'd asked so sweetly. Because the low tone of his voice, the coy tilt of his head, and the skittish diffidence of his gaze all seemed to suggest that what he truly wanted was to pass time alone with Francia, far away from the keen eyes of his men and servants, and Francia has been desirous of the same of late.

In recent years, Alba has grown tall and gracile, his slow-approaching manhood sloughing away the last hints of childish fullness that lingered at his cheeks and jowl to reveal a new stark and strong-boned beauty to his features that Francia is far from alone in admiring. Although Francia finds Alba's seeming obliviousness to the appreciative glances that many amongst his people now direct his way on occasion by turns amusing and charming, but his similar disregard of Francia's own flirtations has become frustrating to the point of distraction.

To the point of foolishness, apparently, as Francia had clearly misinterpreted whatever language it was that Alba's body had truly been speaking. He does not remain close to Francia's side, attentive and interested, but instead strides off ahead just as he normally would, and scarcely shares more than ten words together at a time to him, and all of them meant to draw Francia's attention to some oddly-coloured rock, strangely-shaped tree, or small scuttling beast that has caught his eye.

When it begins to sleet, he does draw nearer and offer the use of his cloak, but he is brusque about the task of draping it around Francia's shoulders, his hands rough and clumsy, untempered by the tender concern of a lover. The wool is already sodden, and it only serves to leech even more warmth from Francia's body.

His shoes were made for court and are too thin and far too fine for trudging through mud. They've been taking on water for the league, at least, and his feet are sore and throbbing fit to burst. He can't even feel the tips of his fingers anymore. He is, he abruptly admits to himself, absolutely miserable, and irritated, thwarted, and humiliated enough that he no longer cares if Alba knows it.

"I want to go back," he tells him.

"You do?" Alba says, his eyes rounding wide in surprise. "But we haven't reached the waterfall I told you about yet. I thought you wanted to see it?"

"Another day, perhaps." Francia smiles thinly. His lips are almost as numb as his hands and they stretch painfully tight across his teeth. "In the summer, for preference."

"The summer?" Alba's face ruddies with a blush. "Oh, of course. I should have thought… Aye, you're right; it probably would be better to come back when it's warmer."

Despite this agreement, Alba makes no move towards heading back to his home but stands unmoving and simply stares at Francia. There is nothing like admiration in _his_ gaze, though. It's uncharacteristically direct, and his eyes are sharp with what Francia suspects might be contempt for this fresh display of weakness on his part.

Francia refuses to be cowed by it, lifts his chin and returns the glare with equal intensity. "Alba, I—"

"Here," Alba says suddenly, head bowing down low as he rifles through the pouch hung at his belt. "I have something for you. A present."

The rising swell of Francia's anger is swept away in an instant by another sort of heat: embarrassment, uncoiling deep and scalding in the pit of his stomach. Alba has given him many gifts over the course of their acquaintance, and he has never known what to make of them; whether they're meant as a kindness or an insult.

Francia brings Alba casks of his finest wine whenever he visits, and in return Alba gives him pebbles and desiccated leaves, snail shells and pieces of driftwood. Francia had run out of polite things to say about them more than a century ago, and, by now, he's sure that what little pretended gratitude he can still manage to dredge up must sound very hollow.

It isn't a piece of useless, natural detritus that Alba now thrusts into his chilled hands but a pair of gloves, made of finely stitched leather, as smooth as butter, and lined with rabbit fur. They're beautiful, and the tepid thanks Francia had been preparing to give lodges hard in his throat. Stunned, he has nothing to offer in its place, and can only gape in silence, first at the gloves and then at Alba.

Alba's colour rises even higher and he frowns, perhaps thinking Francia ungracious and thus unworthy of the gift.

When he reaches out as though to take them back, Francia clutches the gloves tighter, unwilling to relinquish them, then spits out the first coherent words to pass through his mind in the hopes of appeasing Alba. "Did you make these yourself?"

Alba bobs his head, not quite a nod. "Englaland and Cymru helped."

Francia half-expects then that the gloves will have been made deliberately small, or else be filled with artfully concealed barbs – Englaland is spitefully persistent in his hatred, even though, to the best of Francia's knowledge, he has done nothing to deserve it – but when he tentatively slips them on, they fit perfectly and are just as warm and soft as they look.

"They're lovely, Alba," Francia says, beaming at him. "Thank you."

Though Alba returns the smile, and pronounces himself pleased, he still shies away just as he always does when Francia steps closer and attempts to press a kiss to his cheek, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to retreat.

"Right," he says, voice gruff and gaze typically uneasy once more. "Let's get moving, then."

And he sets out with typical gusto, too, marching swiftly ahead without once checking to see whether Francia can keep up and seemingly unconcerned whether he is following or not, as though the entire quiet moment of thoughtfulness they had just shared had not happened at all.


	7. Prompt 001: First Kiss

**December, 1295; Stirling Castle, Kingdom of Scotland**

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The document that France has just put his name to is nothing but a sham. In truth, the alliance between his kingdom and Scotland's had been sealed over a month ago in Paris, the treaty ratified by Scotland's Council and France's king.

Scotland's king had requested that France make the bitterly cold journey north in this unforgiving season in order to stand at Scotland's right hand in a draughty great hall, dressed in his court finery, and sign his name beside Scotland's on a useless piece of parchment. It's a mummer's play meant for the benefit of Scotland's people, so they can witness him bow to their kingdom, shake his hand, and hear him promise, in his own words and his own voice, to aid their efforts in thwarting the ambitions of England's king.

They are a fine, appreciative audience, who lustily cheer this declaration, shout his name out loud and jubilant, and toast him again and again and again, first with ale and then, when they have drained those barrels dry, with the wine France had brought with him to mark the occasion.

And, given the occasion, it seems churlish to refuse any of the brimming tankards that are pressed upon him by grateful hands. France drinks deep from them – far deeper than is his wont – and before the night has even grown long, he is cup-shotten, his head so muddled that his thoughts scarcely seem like his own. He talks too brashly, laughs far too readily; the borrowed joy coursing through his body effervescent and even more intoxicating than the wine.

He wants to share the heady feeling with Scotland but has not seen him for an hour or more. No-one has apparently – not his courtiers or even his king – and France's enquiries after his whereabouts go unsatisfied until a passing maid happens to mention that she had witnessed him leaving the castle a short while ago.

Which is infuriatingly typical of him, spurning company in favour of tromping around the wilderness for no good reason. France has no intentions of chasing after him – he's unsteady enough on his feet that it would likely be a fool's errand – but does poke his head out of doors, just on the off-chance that he hasn't gone far.

To his surprise, Scotland is sprawled out flat on his back in the grass only a handful of ells beyond the castle walls.

"I've been looking for you," France calls out to him.

Scotland hurriedly scrabbles up into a sitting position and rubs at his eyes with the knuckles of a clenched fist. His expression is difficult to read in the wan moonlight, which wreathes more of his features in shadow than it illuminates, but France suspects he is scowling, annoyed at having his repose disturbed.

By the time France takes a seat on the ground by his side, however, that hypothetical scowl has disappeared, and his face has smoothed into blankness.

"I needed some air," he says. "Too much wine, I think."

"That's a shame, France says, holding out his tankard, "because I brought more."

Despite his grumbling, Scotland accepts it eagerly and drains a good half before passing it back. France takes a more conservative sip, then wraps his hands around the tankard and rests it atop his updrawn knees.

As ever, Scotland seems disinclined to speak, and he tips his head back to stare at the stars. France follows his lead, but the scant attraction of watching the twinkling lights being swallowed up by the clouds scudding across the sky quickly palls.

The night is much colder than it had appeared when he first stepped out into it – well-insulated by his over-indulgence – and its chill is insidious, slowly creeping up France's body from the icy sod below.

His teeth chatter and his bones ache from it, and acting on pure, animal instinct, he moves towards the nearest source of warmth: Scotland, whose body always radiates heat like a roaring hearth fire when everything else is frozen through.

And Scotland does not shift away as he usually would, allowing France to press in close against his side without complaint. Then, for a wonder, he drapes an arm around France's back and holds him even closer still.

France rests his temple against the curve of Scotland's shoulder, breathes deep, and listens to the sound of Scotland's breathing: steady at first, but gradually growing quick and shallow.

For once, France would have been glad for him to keep quiet, to hold his peace, but he stays silent for no more than a moment after.

"I imagine we will be testing the terms of our treaty soon enough," he says, his fingers digging into France's biceps.

France hums in answer, offering agreement, but, he hopes, no encouragement to pursue the subject further. He is in no mood for politics tonight.

Unfortunately, Scotland pays him no heed. "England's king has been wanting to bring us to heel for a long while now. I suspect he will invade afore long."

And under the terms of their treaty, Scotland's kingdom will be bound to bear the costs of such a war with him, no matter how great, with no expectation of any aid from France. For the most part, France is glad of that, as his kingdom's safety and prosperity is paramount in his thoughts, but he still fears what the _personal_ cost may be for Scotland himself. Knowing England, he will do his best to ensure it is vast.

"Your brother will be ruthless," he says.

"Aye, no doubt," Scotland says. "But I don't care."

France looks at him askance. "You can't mean that."

"For my people's sake, of course I hope it never comes to that, but for my own? I do not care what he does to me. Not if… Not if it helps to keep _you_ safe." Scotland's grip on France's arm tightens yet further, and his gaze is so intense, so heated, that his eyes almost seem to glow from within. "I will fight for you. I will take every blow for you if I have to. I will _die_ for you."

"But you cannot die, _Écosse_ ," France says, because he can think of nothing else _to_ say; stunned near-witless by Scotland's words.

"I would, though," Scotland insists, his voice low and ragged. "If you needed that of me, I would."

It's a ridiculous pledge. Impossible, for reasons far greater than the indestructibility of Scotland's body. He could understand Scotland being willing to lay down his life for his people, for his king and his lands, but for another of their kind? For _him_? It should be unthinkable.

But Scotland sounds nothing but sincere, and his expression is so ardent that France cannot look away from it. No-one has ever promised him so much of themselves before, and though, rationally, France knows he should refuse what Scotland is offering, he cannot find it within himself to do so.

Instead, he turns beneath Scotland's arm, leans up, and accepts it all with a kiss.  
-

* * *

-  
 **Notes:** **-** On the 23rd of October, 1295, the Treaty of Paris was signed, formalising the alliance between Scotland and France against England. It marks the start of the Auld Alliance. **  
**


	8. Prompt 017: Fireworks

**December 1295; Stirling Castle, Kingdom of Scotland**

-  
Though France would have been happy – nay, _elated_ – to have made love beneath the stars, the bitter wind and frozen ground notwithstanding, Scotland had broken free of his embrace, insisting that they retire to the castle and the privacy afforded by his bedchamber.

France had consoled himself with the thought that Scotland would be even more uninhibited once they were safe from the threat of interruption and prying eyes, but he is doomed to disappointment. Outside, Scotland's kisses had been heated, devouring, his hands firm and sure, but as soon as they step foot in his room, he draws back in on himself again, becoming just as distant as he has ever been in France's company.

Just as untouchable.

When France reaches out from him, he skitters away to stand beside his bed, and once stationed there, he does not invite France to join him either by look or by word, but instead busies himself with plucking at the rumpled furs and sheets piled upon it.

"Sorry," he says, wiping his fingers against the front of his léine. "For the mess. It's not usually... I'm sorry."

There is no fire set in the grate, and their only light is provided by the candle Scotland had brought with him to illuminate their path through the castle's darkened hallways, so France cannot see the room clearly enough to have perceived anything amiss. Nor had he cared to look, as his mind had been far more pleasantly occupied.

Now that Scotland has drawn his attention to it, however, he cannot help but notice the unpleasant smells befouling the air: old sweat, wet dog, and stale smoke; the unmistakable stench of an untidy, unaired room. It's an unwelcome note of reality intruding on what had hitherto seemed almost like a dream to France.

Because it has only ever been in his dreams that Scotland has leant in towards him instead of pulling away, and what had passed between them out there, atop the dew-damp grass, has already begun to feel hazy and unreal, like a slow awakening. The Scotland he has known for centuries would never have opened his mouth so readily to France's, never touched him with such eagerness.

No, _his_ Scotland is here now, with his stiff back, squared shoulders, and downcast eyes. There is still a hint of the phantasmagorical lingering around his mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips, and it is that part of him that France intends to grab hold off when he reaches out for Scotland once more.

"Don't concern yourself with it. We'll be making a mess of our own soon enough, no doubt," he says with a sigh, wrapping his hand loosely around Scotland's wrist. "You were doing so well before. Try to stop thinking so hard. There's no need for it. You just need to keep trusting your instincts."

The advice is meant as much for himself as for Scotland, and he steels himself to act upon it before he loses his nerve.

To his surprise, and delight, Scotland shows no resistance when France tugs on his arm, and he follows along compliantly enough when France pulls him down onto the bed. But there situated, seated side by side on the mattress, Scotland grows silent and inert yet again.

It is far from the first time France has shared a bed, but he has never before had a partner who offers so little of themselves to him: no guidance, no encouragement, not even the barest hint of reciprocation of interest. As he has no wish to push Scotland any further down this road without it, he can only force himself into stillness in kind, try to calm his ragged breathing, and wait.

"I... I don't know what I'm doing," Scotland says an interminable while later, his voice cracking with what sounds to be embarrassment.

And he has every cause to be embarrassed, France thinks, to be attempting to pass off as true what is surely so blatant a lie. He has had no shortage of admirers amongst his people these past two hundred years or more since he first grew into his maturing height and breadth of frame and, if the rumours currently circulating around his court are to be believed, he has taken more than one of them as his lover in the past.

France is well-inclined to believe them, as Scotland has met the flirtations of those admirers with confidence of late, with smiles and laughter and light, easy touches. It is only France that he keeps at arms-length, and France has wondered – even more strongly, here and now – whether that had all been part of some game, some clumsy attempt at acting coy.

A long, tiring, frustrating game, and if it were anyone else, France would have conceded defeat and walked away years ago, but he's wanted _this_ , wanted _Scotland_ , for too long – perhaps even before they first met – to bow out now.

He will persist, but that doesn't mean he has to pander to any of it. He shrugs dismissively, and drawls, "You can just follow my lead."

"Have you... Have you done this before?" Scotland asks.

France rolls his eyes. "Once or twice."

"Who," Scotland begins, but France cuts him off with a kiss before he can draw them both into more obfuscating conversation, delaying the conclusion of the game yet further. After all these many centuries of playing along, being cautious, he is suddenly very impatient to find out how it will end, for good or for ill.

"Ah," he says, "that is a conversation that has no place in the bedchamber, _mon cher_."

"What should we be talking about, then?" Scotland asks.

The flickering flame of their solitary candle is too feeble to discern any of the details of Scotland's face, but judging the way its dim light catches his eyes, France imagines his expression is one of wide-eyed false-naiveite. The though makes him laugh, though without a great deal of humour. "We shouldn't really be talking at all," he says.

He lays a hand, open palmed, against Scotland's cheek, brushes his thumb against the curves of Scotland's generous lower lip, and then waits once more, his heart hammering hard in his chest and more and more of his hope slowly chipping away with each quiet moment of inaction that passes on Scotland's part.

"Show me," Scotland says eventually, his voice so quiet that it is little more than a breath.

"Gladly," France says with feeling, falling onto his back and pulling Scotland down after him.  
-

* * *

-  
 **Author's Note:** Scotland's POV of this chapter is here: (fanfiction. net) /s/11551320/1/Imagine-Your-Life  
(Best I can manage with the link here, but it it is linked directly in my profile as 'Imagine Your Life'!)


	9. Prompt 015: Audience

**1326; Kingdom of France**

-  
The delegation sent by Scotland's king to renew the terms of their alliance with France's own is headed by the Earl of Moray, and, ostensibly, his kingdom, though France has to wonder why Scotland had bothered to accompany them, as he appears to have nothing to add to the proceedings.

He has said not one word beyond the expected greetings and obeisance he paid to France's king. For the past hour or more, has stood sentinel at the Earl's shoulder, as rigid and unmoving as any statue. His gaze had settled upon France, seated at his king's right hand, but seemingly by chance rather than design. His eyes are dull and empty, lacking even the faintest hint of recognition, never mind any interest in the view.

And, for the past hour or more, France's resentment over that has been building, spreading, slowly blossoming into anger. By the time this formal audience ends and the preparations for the evening's welcoming festivities begin, he is determined that he will ignore Scotland in kind, no matter what advances he may make, and spurn him just as thoroughly.

To his chagrin, it seems unlikely that Scotland will even notice his absence, rendering his decision somewhat moot, as his king's courtiers flock to Scotland's side in their droves to take his place.

Try as he might, France cannot blame them for their curiosity, for Scotland is both a novelty and – as he always is, whether it be on short acquaintance or long – an arresting sight: tall, imposing, and darkly handsome.

And also laconic, as they quickly discover. He meets their attention with stony-faced silence for the most part, and those few words he does offer are barely intelligible. His Latin is still as halting as it has ever been, and his burr is so thick that even France struggles to understand him at times, despite his many centuries of familiarity with it.

Their efforts being so poorly rewarded, the adoring masses are just as swift to disperse, leaving Scotland standing alone in hunch-shouldered and morose contemplation of the bottom of his wine cup. After a moment spent scowling at its contents, he throws them back in a single swallow, and then his eyes unerringly meet France's amongst the crowd and across the entire length of the Great Hall .

His face is once more utterly void of expression, and France turns his head aside, disinclined to grant him even the barest courtesy of acknowledgement. If Scotland does desire his company now that the rest of it has dispersed, he must take the initiative and seek it out.

France's pride, however, proves to be fragile, and distressingly soluble. With each cup of wine he himself drinks, the less important it seems that Scotland has still not come to him, and his feelings towards the other nation become increasingly mellow as the night wears on.

Soon, all that remains in his thoughts are the remembered heat of Scotland's body and the pliant bow of his lips. When Scotland slips out of the hall, presumably in need of his bed, France follows him, and in the corridor that separates France's own bedchamber from Scotland's borrowed one, grabs him by the shoulder, pushes him back against the wall, and kisses him.

Scotland returns the kiss willingly enough at first, but only for a beat or two before he takes gentle hold of France's elbow and eases him away. "Easy," he says, in the same low, soothing tone France has often heard him employ on his horse when it is restive or spooks. "Not here."

No, not here. Never _here_ ; not where someone might see. Scotland is always so very mindful of that. No matter how deep in his cups he might be, or how much France might yearn for him, propriety is apparently upmost in his thoughts.

He had been so very different, the first time they shared a bed after signing their sham treaty of alliance. Despite his studied diffidence at the start of it all, he'd fucked just like he fought: rough and passionate, balanced on the thin knife-edge of brutality.

He'd fucked just like France had always imagined he would, and France had gloried in it, in Scotland, in _them_. They scarcely stirred out of bed for the four days following before France journeyed home.

The last three times they'd met, though, Scotland had been quiet and avoidant by day, and by night, between the sheets, he did not reach for France, did not act but only reacted to France's kisses and his touch, his own desire slow to kindle.

If he were anyone else, there would have been no more times beyond the second, and France would definitely not be contemplating a fourth. But, try as he might – try as he has, tonight – he cannot seem to stop himself from reaching out again and again, regardless. Perhaps he has simply wanted Scotland for too long to be so easily deterred. Perhaps he will always be chasing that one, shining moment they shared together, attempting to recapture it, for as long as Scotland will allow the pursuit.

Truth be told, his own thought processes are an enigma to him, he just knows that he still _wants_ , and, damningly, will take whatever Scotland is willing to give him, on whatever terms.

Accordingly, he steps back, giving Scotland the space and the time to confirm that he really does mean _not here_ , and not _not now_ or _not ever_.

Scotland's hand drops away from his arm and he looks back at him levelly, barely even blinking.

France has always found Scotland's eyes to be his most striking feature: they're wide and well-shaped, an unusual shade of velvety moss-green, and framed by long, incongruously delicate lashes, which bring a hint of softness to the otherwise rugged beauty of his face.

But even though they're pressed so closely together that their chests rise and fall with each other's breaths, they're still just as expressionless as they have been for hours now. There is nothing, absolutely nothing behind them that France can see.

Something twists deep in France's guts, sharp and tearing and painful, and suddenly he can't bear the sight of them. He'd like to claw them out of their sockets for preference, but manages to restrain himself to snapping, "Are you just going to stand there staring at me with those dumb cow eyes all night, or are you going to take me to bed?"

Scotland's mouth parts, but for a long, achingly long while he says nothing. When he does eventually answer, the word is so softly spoken that France almost misses hearing it. "Bed."

The pressure that had been building beneath France's ribs as he awaited Scotland's answer drains away in an instant, and he finds himself smiling despite himself. "Well, then," he says, offering his hand to Scotland. Scotland accepts it with reassuring speed. "Lead on, _mon taureau_."  
-

-  
 **Author's Note** :

- **1326** : The Treaty of Corbeil was ratified, renewing the terms of the Auld Alliance.


	10. Prompt 047: Writer's Choice (Concern)

**22nd March, 1421; Baugé, Kingdom of France  
**

-  
England tucked tail and fled with his men after their King's heir fell, leaving the field to France and the crows.

The day is won, and triumph flows through France's veins like the finest of his wines. Like desire, heady and intoxicating, and his body burns with it.

He should retreat to Vieil-Baugé with his soldiers, to offer his congratulations and join with them in toasting their hard-won victory. But he doesn't; he turns again to the battlefield, as this particular fire is not of the sort that can be quenched by wine.

Here and now, Scotland would be the best remedy, and France sets out to find him, eventually tracking him down to the very edge of the battlefield where he is still seated on his glossy black destrier, staring out over the bloodied earth and piled corpses.

The horse flicks an inquisitive ear in France's direction as he approaches, but Scotland remains as stiff and inert as a statue until France draws close enough to reach a hand out towards him. Scotland's own hands twitch then, fingers tightening around the reins held within them.

The destrier flings its head up high, mouth gaping as it tries to evade the sudden pressure on its bit, and its eyes roll so far back in their sockets that the whites show around the edges. France settles his hand instead on its neck, hoping that his touch will sooth it.

"Hush," he says. "Be calm. The fighting is done."

The words are spoken to the horse, but Scotland reacts as though they meant for him, as well. He sags down in his saddle, and his tight grip on the destrier's reins slackens. It puts its head down and begins to graze.

"England could yet return," Scotland says, censorious, because of course his head is still filled with naught but his brother. Whenever they clash, he becomes single-minded to the point of obsession, and fights with a keen intensity and passion France has never seen him display anywhere else, their bed very much included.

"He could," France says, "but I doubt it will be today. He lost his commander; his king's heir. I think he will be licking that particular wound for some time to come."

"Nevertheless—"

"Nevertheless, we have won," France says sharply, not willing to be drawn into the conversation Scotland seems inclined to start. He doesn't want to talk about England – not here, not now, not in this moment of triumph which he intends to savour as best he can. Thinking of England would only sour the taste of it. "You can rest now. You're the last man on the field."

He moves his hand from the horse's neck to Scotland's leg, trailing his fingers over the cool curve of the poleyn covering his knee and then up along the grooved lines of the cuisse above it.

Scotland's gorget creaks as he tilts his head, tracking the movement, and for an agonisingly long while after France's hand has settled at the top of his thigh, he does not say or do anything. In the resulting silence, France starts to feel unsure of himself, in a way he never is with anyone else. Uncertain that his touch is wanted or even appreciated.

Eventually, though, Scotland dismounts his horse and when France gestures for him to raise the visor of his helmet, he complies readily enough.

His eyes are clear, his cheeks flushed, and the small smile that graces his lips is so warm and inviting that France cannot help but reach out for him again.

"You were magnificent, mon taureau," he says, because it's true and he needs Scotland to hear it before other matters intervene and he forgets himself and the words. It's always a privilege and a pleasure to watch Scotland with a sword in hand, his every movement as well-oiled and graceful as a dancer's.

The memory of it stirs France's blood, and he surges forward, presses his lips to Scotland's, but Scotland returns the kiss half-heartedly, already pulling away before it had ever really begun.

"Easy," he says, as he always does, in that same soft, reassuring tone he always uses when he thinks France is making a fool of himself – of _them_ – by getting taking things too far; by being too eager, apparently, that he cares not one whit that they're not safely ensconced behind a closed door, hidden from the eyes of the world.

France scowls at him. "Why?" he asks, as he truly cannot understand Scotland's squeamishness this time. They are alone but for the corpses and the crows, who are unlikely to care what they do.

"Well, I don't much fancy bedding down on the battlefield, if it's all the same to you," Scotland says, his nose wrinkling in distaste, as though he believes that France was on the verge of dropping to his knees right there amongst the mud and spilt viscera.

France had never even entertained the thought, and he resents the implication that he might be crass enough – might be so _uncontrollably_ _overcome_ by his own need – to do so, especially whilst Scotland stands there indifferent.

"And I had no intention of doing so," he snaps. "It should take us no more than a moment or two to walk back to camp."

Scotland trails a few feet behind him as they make their way to Vieil-Baugé, where their armies are billeted. France hardly expected them to link arms as they walk, but the careful distance he maintains still rankles. He's always so very _cautious_ , so very _proper_ , as though unwilling to give the impression that they are even close, never mind anything else. And never mind that their officers and soldiers would not condemn them for who or what they are to one another, or what they might choose to do together, as they are able to accept many things when it comes to their kingdoms that they would never forgive in their fellow men.

By the time they reach France's tent, France's resentment has grown, but the urge to kiss Scotland has not receded sufficiently that he can resist acting upon it once Scotland returns from taking entirely too long about dealing with his horse.

And it's awkward to kiss him, both still armoured, their breastplates clashing together, and arms constricted by vambrace and spaulder, though France doesn't care. Victory still sings sweet in his veins, and the heat in his belly is rising once more. He wants to share it with Scotland, hopefully kindle a little of that same warmth within him, too.

But Scotland wrenches his head aside, and says, "I think we're a little overdressed for this."

It's a sensible observation, infuriatingly level-headed, because Scotland is never _overcome_ , is never so transported by the moment that he forgets such trivialities such as practicality and convenience. After all these years, France is still not sure whether he does not feel it or simply does not allow himself to feel it. That ambiguity is, by now, the only thing still keeping him here, still trying and hoping and battering against the walls Scotland seems to throw up around himself at times such as this until they give enough to let him in, however briefly.

It's tiring work, though, and he has to put a little distance between him and Scotland before his irritation has chance to build into anger and overwhelm everything else.

He retreats to the far end of the tent and breathes deeply and steadily as he watches Scotland struggle with the ties and buckles of his armour as he attempts to remove it.

It doesn't help. His resentment from earlier has not dissipated, and the anger he had tried to avoid chases close on its heels. Anger at himself, mostly, for willingly putting himself in this position yet again and not having the strength to resist temptation, even knowing exactly what the outcome would be.

It makes him spiteful enough to that anger into Scotland, wanting him to experience some small measure of it in return, if he can feel nothing else.

"You should not have allowed Angleterre to retreat," he says.

Scotland looks shocked, his jaw dropping low. "What?"

"You should not have allowed Angleterre to retreat," France repeats, each word sharp and pointed, because he wants them to needle, wants them to _hurt_. Each one aimed squarely towards the sore spot France knows England represents for Scotland.

"I had my orders," Scotland says gruffly.

"And when have orders ever mattered when it comes to your brother? I wanted his head."

"We'll have other chances for that." Scotland shrugs, damnably unconcerned and unfairly unruffled still. "War's not over yet."

"It was poorly done, Scotland. You may have cost us dearly," France says, and it's crueller than he'd intended, crueller than he would normally allow himself be, but Scotland does finally respond to him. His colour rises, and his eyes, when he lifts them to meet France's, spark bright with defiance.

It's not much of a reaction, but it's enough - for now, at least - and France goes to him again, arms outstretched.


	11. Prompt 024: Protection

**March, 1514; Honfleur, Kingdom of France**

-  
The _Great Michael_ is truly magnificent.

She's the largest ship afloat, two hundred and forty feet long and thirty-three abeam, dwarfing England's own _Mary Rose_ which, to France's mind, makes her all the more glorious.

He has always felt a certain strain of proprietary interest in her, having been taken by Scotland to see her in all stages of her construction, from when she was naught but a great oaken skeleton to her launch from Newhaven – the pride of the nascent Scottish Navy. She still flies the Saltire from the top of her mizzenmast, the Lion Rampant from her main, but soon she will be sailing under a different flag.

Soon, she will be his, as his king is to purchase her for the moderate sum of forty thousand livres. A steal, perhaps, though France feels no real guilt over this particular act of theft. Scotland's new king is but an infant – not even two years old – and so many of his nobility were killed in his recent battle with England that the _Michael_ had quickly proven too costly to maintain

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" a familiar voice says from behind him on the dock, booming out even more loudly than usual to be heard over the sound of the wind snapping through the _Michael_ 's sails. "I don't blame you for staring."

Scotland had given no word that he intended to accompany his ship to the harbour at Honfleur, but then he is – and always has been – a most dilatory and slipshod correspondent. His letters are brief affairs, dashed off in a lackadaisical hand and riddled with spelling errors and crossings-out, and contain nothing of any substance. France is kept well informed of the ever-shifting weather conditions of Scotland's country by them, but of the kingdom himself – of his health, occupations, and private concerns – there is no word save those accounts France receives from others.

If England had not visited him with the sole intent of gloating over Scotland's king's death at Branxton and Scotland's own defeat at his hands, he would have remained in all ignorance of Scotland's wounding. It would have been a shock to turn and see him so damaged: the still-healing slash encircling his throat; the deep cuts that have torn his brow asunder and blinded one eye.

That foreknowledge dampens the dismay France experiences at the sight of those injuries and tempers his instinct to reach out for Scotland in the hopes of giving him some comfort. A good thing too, as Scotland would likely think it pity and not thank him for it.

France clasps his hands together and holds them safely distant, pressed against the small of his back. "She is," he says.

Scotland's answering smile is faint but pleased. If he feels any sorrow or pain at all at the loss of the _Michael_ , it does not show in his expression nor does it sound in his voice when he says, "Shall we go aboard?"

He walks up the gangplank slowly, his steps lacking their usual vigour, and on deck, his body sways wildly, quite out of proportion to the gentle swell of the waves buoying the ship. Though he does not have the natural sea legs of his brother, France has never seen him so unbalanced on-board, either.

His clumsiness hints at other wounds, hidden by his clothing, but France does not enquire after them. Scotland would doubtless not admit to them here and now, and he will be able to inspect them at close quarters later, anyway, when they inevitably fall into bed.

So, he keeps his silence on the matter as they take their tour of the ship. Scotland hobbles ahead of him, drawing his attention in particular to the twenty-four Flanders guns the _Micheal_ is armed with; the great bronze basilisk cannons mounted fore and aft. France makes the requisite noises of interest over them but says no more besides.

They are approaching the gangplank again when the ship heaves suddenly, the deck dropping away beneath them. Scotland teeters, stumbles, and would have fallen had France not grabbed his elbow and held him steady.

"Don't," Scotland snarls. "I don't need your help. I'm fine."

He wrenches his arm away from France so swiftly and so violently that France almost overbalances himself, and the bland, pleasant expression he had been wearing twists into one of horror shading towards revulsion, as though France's touch is a poisonous thing he must escape. As though it sickens him.

It has become his habit in recent years. He had rarely invited closeness in the past, but he did once welcome it, if only on his terms and only when and where he chose. Even there, between the sheets, he has become ever more remote, and though he moves the right way and makes the right noises, it is nothing but a simulacrum of passion with no true heat behind it.

France has to wonder why he still contrives to visit him so often when he seems to find little pleasure in his company when they do meet. He never laughs anymore, seldom smiles, and their conversation is even sparser than the letters he sends.

Maybe he thinks it a duty that he must perform to honour their alliance. Or maybe – France has increasingly believed of late – he takes some small measure of enjoyment from the power he holds over France and how pathetically eager France still is, despite Scotland's distance and his disinterest, to roll over and take anything he's willing to give at the merest hint he might desire it.

And Scotland's touch has begun to sicken France, too. Not because he despises it, but the opposite. He hungers for it as strongly as he ever did, and it's his own weakness that turns his stomach.

It's like an addiction, consuming and powerful, and France already knows that he will succumb to it eventually and submit to engaging in a mummer's farce of intimacy on this visit as he has every other.

He is not ready or able to overcome it – not quite; not yet – but he has been hardening his heart for years in his efforts to rid himself of the affliction, and he's fully capable now of denying Scotland everything else, if needs be: his own laughter, smiles, and conversation, and even compassion.

He might not be strong enough yet to step away, but he can step back.

"Of course you are," he says, retreating from his close station at Scotland's shoulder. He assays a shallow bow. "The perfect picture of good health, as always, _mon taureau_."

Scotland nods once, satisfied, and then sets off down the gangplank with his normal long, brisk strides. They appear to cost him dearly, judging by the stiff set of his shoulders and his pained grimace, and he trips at the end of the plank, falling hard to his knees.

France doesn't offer to lend a hand to help him back to his feet again and walks straight on past him to the dock.  
-

* * *

-  
 **Notes:**

\- The _Great Michael_ was a carrack of the Scottish Royal Navy. When she was launched in 1511, she was the largest ship afloat, and twice the size of her English contemporary, the _Mary Rose_. She was too large to be built at any dockyard that existed in Scotland at the time, so a new one had to be constructed at Newhaven (now part of Edinburgh) to accomodate her.

When she was later sold to France, she was too large for the harbour at Dieppe and had to be docked at Honfleur.

\- Henry VIII of England ordered the _Henry Grace à Dieu_ \- which was even larger - to be built in 1512, apparently in response to the construction of the _Michael_.

\- The _Michael_ was very expensive to build - her construction cost £30,000; almost all of King James IV's annual income - and maintain. After James IV was killed in the Battle of Flodden (Branxton) along with many of his nobles on the 9th September 1513, the ship was sold to King Louis XII of France.

\- The _Michael_ was lost, and accounts differ regarding what became of her. The most widely accepted account is that the French left her to rot at Brest. However, there were some reports that the _Michael_ (renamed 'La Grande Nef d'Ecosse' (The Big Nave (Ship) of Scotland) and flying under the French flag) was involved in the Battle of the Solent and dealt damage to the _Mary Rose_ , which later sank.


	12. Prompt 035: Gone

**Circa 1590; Kingdom of France**

-  
France always feels drained after they've fucked.

Not worn out, exhausted, and pleasantly aching as he used to, but as though something vital within himself has been siphoned away, leaving him feeling empty and hollowed out inside.

Normally, that feeling quickly recedes, and sometimes France's desire rises again with its passing and he reaches for Scotland once more. But tonight, it persists, and France cannot bear to see Scotland's vacant expression for even a moment longer. He rolls over onto his side, turns his back on him.

-  
( _That same hollowness will persist into the morning and, for the first time in centuries, France will look at Scotland – flushed and rumpled from sleep, and just as handsome as he has ever been – and feel nothing. Absolutely nothing, not even the relief he had expected to experience when he finally broke free from the unfathomable hold Scotland has kept over him for almost as long._ )

-  
Scotland does not move with him, does not speak to him, or touch him, or even look at him, most likely. He never does anymore. Never _has_ , not since those four glorious, deceitful days in Stirling Castle nearly three centuries ago.

And he never will. France knows that with a newfound clarity that has otherwise eluded him for years. He has been a fool, but no more. Never again.

-  
( _And in the morning, he will tell Scotland that; tell him that he does not wish to ever meet again on their same, old, intimate terms. Scotland's vacuous dumb cow eyes will well with fat, fatuous tears and he will tell France how much he admires him, and cherishes him, and wants him still. He will lie over and over and over again._ )

-  
It's like sharing a bed with a stranger. Worse even, as France has had lovers who he has taken to bed after knowing them for less than an hour together who have treated him with more tenderness and care than this man whom he has presumed to know since childhood and who has fought by his side and guarded his back in countless battles.

Behind him, the mattress creaks and rustles as Scotland shifts his weight, resettling himself on his side. His breath warms the back of France's neck, but he does not move closer.

 _-  
(France will not believe any of them. He will close his ears to Scotland's words and his sobs and walk away, and that should be the end of it all. But it will not be. Scotland will dog his steps all day, relentless, determined, and devoted in a way he never has been before. Frantic for the attention that France had once offered him in abundance, but he had always spurned.)_

-  
"Shall I leave, France?" Scotland asks, his voice quiet and whisper thin.

They haven't shared a bed for longer than it takes to sate themselves in over a century, because Scotland is an unsettled sleeper who punches and kicks his way through what France presumes – has to presume, as Scotland refuses to speak of them – must be very unpleasant dreams, and France's youthful romantic notions had been ceded to practicality long ago.

Scotland has never once intimated that he might prefer to stay since, accepting the arrangement without complaint, and France wonders why he is questioning it now, of all times. Despite everything, a faint flutter of hope stirs into weak life at his breast.

"Do you want to?" he asks.

 _-  
(France has never thought Scotland cruel, only indifferent, but later, much later that night, he will be drunk and desperate enough to drop to his knees in front of France and voice the biggest, most vicious lie he has ever told him. 'I love you'; _'Je t'aime _'; '_ Tha gaol agam ort _' – as though speaking it thrice might make it any less of a falsehood. France will only hate him all the more for the repetition.)_

-  
Scotland does not answer. The question must have been an idle one; conversation for conversation's sake. The hope withers away no more than half-formed, and the emptiness returns.

"Do whatever you like," he snarls. "Stay, go; they're both the same to me. I do not care, _Écosse_."

 _-  
(France will turn and leave Scotland behind without another word, and he will promise himself that he will never, ever look back.)_

-  
France immediately wishes he hadn't given Scotland the choice because, for no reason he can fathom, Scotland decides to stay. As distant and remote as ever, half the width of the bed between them, but he stays all the same.

And France is too worn out and exhausted now to argue, or even think on the matter a moment longer. He will deal with it all in the morning.


	13. Prompt 039: Insanity

**1657; London, Kingdom of England**

-  
In some ways, England reminds France very strongly of his brother. There is little in their looks that suggests their shared blood – even their eyes, both green, are such markedly different shades that they can scarcely be called the same colour – nor in their frames or their carriage, but their habits and their manners can be extraordinarily similar.

England had appeared uncharacteristically eager that France accept his invitation to visit him in London, but now that France is here, he seems to have little to say and even less desire to engage with him.

He had talked in a desultory fashion about their recent alliance, then with rather more heat about the chance it presented to trounce Spain, with whom he has also been at war these past three years, but thereafter he had fallen silent, eschewing further conversation in favour of drinking his tea.

France assumes he must be sickening for something – tea is a recent arrival to England's shores, is wincingly expensive, and, by France's estimation, has nothing to recommend it beyond its supposed medicinal qualities. England had urged him to sample some earlier, but it had proven just as bitter and unpleasant as any France has ever tasted before.

As there was no wine on offer, France had had to settle for small beer, though he has taken only a few sips from his mug, preferring instead to put his mouth to better use in trying to engage England in conversation. But fashion, music, theatre, even England's favourite topic, the capricious English climate – not one avenue of potential discussion inspires any reaction other than a disinterested grunt or apathetic shrug from his companion.

After an hour spent in this same, frustrating fashion, France has to conclude that his invitation had been no olive branch, extended to honour the spirit of their new alliance. He had optimistically held out some hope of that even after his accidental encounter with England's other houseguest this morning, but had only been deceiving himself, it seems.

No, the invitation was exactly what France had feared it might be when he first received it – just another petty cruelty of the sort England so delights in perpetrating upon him.

"It was deliberate, then?" he asks.

That question engages England's interest at last, and he looks up from his own mug, his eyes opening disingenuously wide, playing at being perplexed. "Deliberate?" The stammering stumble he makes in the middle of the word is a nice touch – almost convincing. "What _are_ you talking about?"

" _Écosse_ being here," France says, prepared to humour him for the moment. "It can be no-one's doing but your own that we were both invited to stay at the same time."

"And why on earth would I want that?" England asks. "Why would I want to give either of you any encouragement to… to carry on together under my own roof?"

He looks and sounds genuinely nauseated at the thought, just as he always has when forced by circumstance to consider Scotland and France being intimate, and also genuinely convinced that they might still seek that same intimacy from one another.

Almost seventy years have passed since they parted ways, but it comes as no real surprise to France to learn that Scotland has not imparted that information to his brother. By both their accounts, they are not close, and seldom speak unless they have something of great import or pressing urgency to say. The end of their affair doubtless constituted neither, to Scotland's mind.

"It simply slipped my mind that he was coming," England says, which France also finds easy to believe. He is often muddle-headed and forgetful about matters which don't immediately and directly affect him and him alone. "You've no doubt noticed that I put the two of you in chambers at opposite ends of the house," he continues. "There's a damn good reason for that, and one I hope you'll respect."

"Of course, _Angleterre_ ," France says. Maintaining his distance from Scotland will be a blessing rather than a hardship. Even more so for Scotland, he imagines. "I wouldn't dream of doing otherwise."  
-

* * *

-  
Contrary to his claimed wish of keeping them apart, England insists that both France and Scotland join him for dinner.

When their paths happened to cross in the corridor outside England's study earlier that day, France had barely had chance to so much as glance at Scotland. They'd addressed each other by names that were neither of them their own, exchanged flustered pleasantries – directed towards their own boots for the most part – and then hurriedly parted ways in the exact same instant that this bare minimum of politeness was attained.

Still, a glance was shared, and France had felt no stirring of hunger, no renewal of that strange power Scotland used to hold over him that kept drawing France back to his side – and his bed – time and again over the centuries against his best interests.

He had been proud of himself, but prematurely so, it transpires, as such studied detachment is much harder to achieve when they are seated across from one another at England's dinner table and France has no choice but to look on Scotland longer.

For seven decades, he has endeavoured to persuade himself that the strength of his attraction was born from the longevity of their acquaintance and the tender and impressionable age at which they first met, with its attendant tumult of new urges and desires desperately seeking satisfaction.

Instead, it seems that all he had achieved was forgetting just how striking Scotland is when he is in the flesh and close at hand.

He puts France in mind of a statue, each strong feature exquisitely balanced and skilfully carved by a master of the art, though not in a way that makes him seem untouchable; something to be admired at a respectful distance. Quite the opposite, as that outward perfection has always made France long to touch him – to raise a blush to his pale, marble-like skin; to see that stony countenance marred by a smile or by laughter.

He watches Scotland's face carefully now, transfixed despite himself by the minute changes in his expression as listens to his brother drone on and on, recounting some dreary tale that France wouldn't care to pay any heed to even if it were only the two of them seated at the table.

The small hidden twist at the corner of Scotland's lips when England says something he finds amusing; the slow downward sweep of his long eyelashes as he grows tired of playing silent audience to the never-ending monologue; the faint colouring of his cheeks when he finally notices France looking at him.

The tilt of his massive shoulders whenever he shifts his position in his chair, the curl of his fingers around the stem of his wineglass, the sporadic clenching of the muscles at the hinge of his jaw as his patience thins – France finds it all equally mesmerising and he has no attention to spare for anything else.

He eats without tasting a single speck of the food he is served and throws back his wine in a single swallow every time a servant steps forward to refill his glass.

Such carelessness proves to be a grievous mistake.

When England announces that he is drawing their dinner to a close and retiring for the night, France struggles to rise from his own chair. His legs are shaking hard, his head spins, and he'd likely have lost his balance entirely if Scotland had not grabbed his elbow and held him upright – considerate, as he ever has been, of France's health, if nothing else.

"Easy now," he says in that old, familiar, hatefully condescending way of his. "You're going to do yourself an injury if you're not careful."

If he were capable of it, France would protest against this unwelcome, deceitful solicitude, but the words stay lodged in his throat, his lips too clumsy to form them. His feet are clumsy, too, needing Scotland's guiding touch to keep them on course, keep them moving, through the darkened corridors of England's house.

Scotland's own steps are firm, despite the many glasses of wine he had himself imbibed this evening, and the arm he hooks around France's back is solid. Dependable. When they were younger, France had hated Scotland's strength almost as much as he loved it, for how small it made him feel.

Even now, after everything, some tiny part of him still craves it, and he leans into Scotland's side more heavily than is perhaps required to steady himself as they make their slow way upstairs.

At the door to France's temporary bedchamber, Scotland smiles faintly and says, "Here we go. Back safe and sound."

He reaches down and, with soft, gentle fingers, brushes a wayward strand of hair that has escaped from beneath France's wig back behind his ear. Then, he drops his hands, takes a measured step away from France, and bows his head as though awaiting judgement.

In the dim light, his dumb cow eyes are shadowed dark and deep, and his lips look invitingly soft, even though France knows they wouldn't be. As Scotland has never paid proper care and attention to his person, they would be rough and chapped and catch against France's skin.

France shouldn't kiss him. He shouldn't _want_ to kiss him.

He does so anyway.


	14. Prompt 008: Nostalgia

**1698; Edinburgh, Kingdom of Scotland**

-  
To excuse his absence from court, France had told his king that he needed to visit Scotland's country on an urgent business matter. It wasn't a lie, precisely: he does have business to conduct, it is pressing, but it could just have easily been managed by letter or via one of the human intermediaries France normally employs to arrange his pecuniary affairs in Edinburgh.

What he had told himself was that the matter in question was a complex one, requiring a deft hand and delicate touch to orchestrate to his advantage, and thus it would benefit him to attend to it in person.

In truth, this visit had been made not in service of his pocket, but of his heart; in satisfaction of a passing fancy or whim, conceived when he was deep in his cups and gripped tight in the deceptively warm embrace of ancient memories.

It was an indulgence, though it does not feel like very much of one now.

The weather in Scotland's country is unruly and unpredictable – storm clouds gathering within the blink of an eye; bright sunny days turning blizzard cold upon a single breath of wind blowing in from the north – and though it had been clement when France set out from his lodgings, by the time his meeting with his agent is concluded, rain is sluicing down from the steely-dark sky in heavy grey sheets.

His coat and breeches are saturated in an instant, and water drips from the curling tendrils of his wig, slides down his neck, beneath his collar, and soaks the thin cotton of his chemise down to his skin.

He shivers, thinks longingly of the roaring hearth fire in his lodgings, but his feet persist in turning him towards a much closer source of remembered comfort. To Scotland's home, only two streets away, though he isn't fully cognisant of his destination until he finds himself standing outside it, fist clenched and already rapping at the door.

As soon as he realises his mistake, he draws back, means to step away, but Scotland answers his summons with punishing swiftness, catching him in this moment of foolishness – this act of pure animal instinct, searching for shelter – before he has chance to escape.

They had argued, the last time they saw one another. Or, rather, France had shouted and near screamed himself hoarse over some minor slight or insult he can no longer recall, and had Scotland had stood gawping at him in that vacuous bovine way of his, as dense and unmovable and voiceless as the rocks he so values.

France had told Scotland he hated him before they parted ways that day, and that he wished they'd never met. Childish words, regrettably untrue, and the recollection of them shames France now. Despite his best efforts towards indifference, and his centuries-long, hard-won knowledge of Scotland's own, he still lashes out in reckless vindictiveness in the face of it, losing control of his tongue in a particular sort of frenzy that never inflicts him around anyone else, no matter the provocation.

The best way to combat it, he has found, is to strive to say nothing at all, and so he stays silent whilst Scotland sneers down on him as though he's some piece of stinking refuse, some rotting effluent, fetched up and deposited at his feet by the swift tide of rising water now skipping over the cobbles beyond his front door.

Still, he says, "Well, you'd better come in," because Scotland and his brothers all unfailingly try to play the part of the polite host, at least, even if they'd much rather run a sword through their guest's heart and their niceties seldom last long. "Wouldn't want you to wash away."

It's too late for France to refuse the invitation and turn away, as it would mean owning up to a mistake he doesn't want to admit to having made. He follows Scotland back inside the house and up the stairs to its second floor, mulishly maintaining his silence even when Scotland then leads him on into his bedchamber.

If Scotland had had any lascivious intentions in mind when making his choice of destination, they are not immediately apparent, as he does not so much as glance towards his bed but instead directs France to take a seat before the fire.

And France sinks down onto it gratefully, angling himself towards the flames. All thoughts of Scotland, of the strange awkwardness of this unintended meeting and their current circumstances, fly from his head as their much needed and most welcome heat licks over his skin. He busies himself with the tedious but absorbingly exacting work of untangling the knotted strands of his wig, so those thoughts don't have room to creep back in again.

"Can I fetch you anything?" Scotland asks some time later. "Something to drink or—"

France shakes his head briskly. This isn't a social call, and he has no wish to sup with Scotland or to make conversation.  
Thankfully, it seems as though Scotland is no better disposed to doing so, either, as he makes no reply and simply sits in the armchair beside France's and stares vacantly at the fire.

France rakes his fingers through his wig again and again until not a single snarl remains, idly watches the steam rising from his damp clothes as they warm through, then, as soon as they're dry to the touch once more, springs to his feet, ready and eager to take his leave.

He turns to Scotland, meaning to offer him thanks for his hospitality, but the words die deep in his throat long before even reaching his lips.

He hadn't cared to look too closely at Scotland earlier, either on his doorstep or when they were seated side by side, but there's no escaping the sight now.

He had known, of course, of the struggles of Scotland's people – that they are starving, their crops failing, and that trade between their two kingdoms has slowed to a trickle to weak to sustain them – but, naïvely, he had somehow never imagined that Scotland himself might be affected and altered by them. Not bodily, anyhow. He has always seemed so strong, so solid, so dependable in his physicality, if nothing else.

But now he has sunk down into himself, is startlingly diminished, his pallid skin hanging loose about the still-firm lines of his square jaw and high cheekbones.

Unthinking, France slides a hand from the newly deep hollow at the base of Scotland's throat to the underside of his chin and pushes his head back until their eyes meet.

Scotland's are not the same lush, verdant shade of springtime leaves France still dreams about, but the murky grey-green of pond sludge, deeply bagged below, the thin skin there purpled like a bruise, and feathered at the corners with a tracery of fine lines.

A sharp shock of pain lances through France's chest, swiftly followed by a slow spreading warmth that swells so full in its wake that it makes his ribs twinge.

He wishes it were pity, though he knows it is not. Pity would be forgivable – he would be inspired to it even it was his worst enemy looking so low and so wretched through no fault of his own – but this is sympathy. This is compassion. Worse yet, it is _tenderness_ , because he _is_ foolish and damnably weak to this, even now.

He runs his thumb across Scotland's chapped bottom lip, and watches beads of blood bloom there in a sort of horrified, aching fascination. Watches the tip of Scotland's tongue flicker out and wash that blood away, knowing, too, that he's already lost. That what will happen next is inevitable, because he's still too fucking weak.

" _Écosse_ ," he says. He sighs. And, resigned, he tips Scotland's head back even further and leans down into a kiss.  
-

* * *

-  
 **Notes:**

\- **1698:** One of the Seven Ill Years, a national famine in Scotland. It was caused, in part, by a shift towards protectionism in France, causing a slump in trade, and four years of failed harvests. This famine was one of the factors leading to the eventual union of Scotland with England in 1707.


End file.
